Page 1 of Paper Roses

one

. . .

jed

I sit in a chair by my bedroom window. The soft summer morning light burnishes the naked body of the man in my bed, highlighting his beauty. I rub my lips idly while observing him. He’s stunning, with thick, dark hair and a long, angular body. He sleeps peacefully, the tiny smile playing on his full lips hinting at sweet dreams.

I regard him some more, and then I lean forwards and poke him.Hard.

He wakes up with a jerk. “What?” he mumbles, knuckling at his eyes.

I smile sweetly at him. “Time to go.”

He lowers his hands. “Are youserious?”

“Always.”

“Your bedside manner could do with some refining.” He directs a glare at me.

I take a moment to consider his statement and then shrug. “I think it’s just fine, thank you.” I hand him his clothes. I’d pickedthem up from my bedroom floor earlier and folded them neatly. “Bye.”

He grunts and kicks the covers off, muttering, “Gave you a world-class shag and not even the offer of a fucking coffee.” He stands and dons his clothes in sharp, irritated jerks.

The sex had been barely above subpar in Chelsea, let alone the world, but I dismiss the impulse to tell him. “I can do coffee,” I say amiably. I stand up and stretch, feeling the pleasant soreness in my body. “I’ve got a to-go cup.”

“Wanker.” He stalks into the bathroom and slams the door.

“Does that mean yes or no to coffee?” I call, but he’s banging around in there and doesn’t reply.

I search for a feeling of guilt but don’t find it. I didn’t make him any promises. In fact, I distinctly remember telling him that I didn’t like spending the night with anyone. He’d seemed okay with it at the time. This is what comes from falling asleep before I can show my bedmate the door.

From the photo frame on the bedside table, my husband stares at me, his blond hair perfectly styled as it was so rarely in life. His eyes are very blue, a result of contacts and not the superior family genes he used to tell me about. A wicked smile tugs at his lips.

“You’d be laughing your head off right about now,” I inform him. “And telling me I’ve made a rookie error with my conversation this morning. You’d have sandwiched those comments with particularly salacious stories of things you’d done in the past.” I shake my head. “I’m ninety percent sure those stories were made up, but it’s the ten percent that still concerns me.”

His image continues to silently stare at me. The room’s mocking quiet is suddenly broken by the blare of “Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” by Oasis. I grimace at the speaker. I’ve always fucking hated that song. It had been Mick’s choice for an alarm, and tenyears after his death, I’m still waking up to it. My sentimentality is ridiculous and something Mick never really understood. He protected it but wasn’t averse to constantly taking the piss out of me for it.

“Enough,” I inform Liam Gallagher, but he keeps on singing valiantly. Keeping my ear cocked for what the stranger is doing in my bathroom, I say, “Alexa, set my alarm song to be—” I rack my brains. What song is so fucking super special that I want to wake up to it every morning?

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand your instruction.”

“Me neither.” I sigh. “Alexa, just set my alarm sound as alarm.”

She doesn’t respond, either attempting to understand me or completely stunned by my boring nature.

After stripping the bed, I bundle the linen together and stuff it into the laundry basket. Then I grab some fresh sheets from the cupboard and make up the bed quickly. The sheets smell of cedar, and Mick used to ask why we were sleeping in a bed that smelt of his grandmother’s wardrobe, but I’ve always loved it.

And, apparently, today is going to be one of those days when my dead husband haunts me, because the sheets immediately remind me of those first weeks after he was gone. The wild, unhinged sadness that made it so I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and wouldn’t dream of fresh sheets on the bed. The scent of him had been one of my only comforts.

I rub at my chest as I stare down at the neatly made bed, reminding myself that I’ve come a long way from those days. Grief is a funny old thing. It’s much more of a gentle melancholy now, but I’m not sure my current existence is much of an improvement over those rollercoaster days of deep mourning, where a sudden switchback could steal my breath—like finding a note he’d tucked in a book for me or hearing his favourite song on the radio.

I have a successful business now, a gorgeous home, more money than I can spend, and a loving if nosy family. Yet, I drift through it all like a stick floating atop moving water. And I have no desire for a relationship beyond an orgasm that doesn’t come from my right hand.

“Bet you never factored in a complete disinterest in life, did you, Mr Know it All?” I say into the air. “So, what do I do next? You tell me, Mick.”

In mocking answer, a face immediately swims into my mind—thin and high-boned, with shiny dark hair tumbling around it. It’s a beautiful face that reflects the sweet nature of its owner. I know the man quite well. He’s my assistant.

The bathroom door opens, thankfully pulling me from those ridiculous thoughts. My former bedmate appears, pulling on his T-shirt.

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